


between air and earth

by IiIia



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Era-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Medievalish, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-06-30 22:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15760896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IiIia/pseuds/IiIia
Summary: Takahiro’s life was firmly divided. From heir apparent to hostage, and desert to mountain.But mostly by before-Issei and after-IsseiOr my extremely self indulgent matsuhana medievalish au





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

His earliest memory is of the endless horizon.

It’s all just catches of light on a spool of thread now. Something tender, a blurred vision of his mother’s smile, her voice cooing and gentle, her fingers lovingly stroke his hair. A flicker of fire, his sister swirls around the light, her limbs fierce and strong with every movement. His cheeks cooled by the night, the stars brilliant above. And sand, the endless sand, always sifting softly underfoot.

The images flicker back leading him along half forgotten memories, and he is brought to the beginning. The edge of an endless sky, whispering, _you come from me child_.

They are born of the horizon, but the sand is their end.

And to the sand they went.

As the years passed, so did the tenderness, the memories became nothing, but the embittered ruin. Scorched sand dyed red. Hard, cruel voices echoing as fire razed around them, terrified screams dimmed to pained whimpers and then nothing.

His sister lifting him onto a horse, she wraps a scarf around him, fingers trembling, before pulling away, ‘ride until you reach the horizon.’

He calls for her to follow, but she shakes her head, slapping the horse’s withers. And her expression is lost in the grainy bite of sand, the memory blurred with tears. The village is just a distant plume of smoke, before that disappears too.

Tenderness replaced by fire, sand with darker earth, the endless horizon with a canopy of green. Exhaustion.

Thirst.

A sharp blade, ‘Where are you from?’

Sand and blood. His throat burns and aches, but the words will not come.

The blade stings against his neck and he closes his eyes. He waits for the final strike, his mind pulled thin with exhaustion and he is far from home now. Nothing, but thick, brown dirt beneath his knees. But there is warmth on his back, shoots of light imprinted on his eyelids, and he remembers home, it’s a heat glazed image, a bittersweet reminder of beginnings and of the end. Of sand. And between the clutches of reality and dreams, a voice distorted as if shouting against the wind, calls, _come to me child._

But, there is no final blow. And he blinks wearily at the sharp tang of metal being sheathed.

It’s been years and his memories faded or, sharp and dyed red, but he’ll always remember the boy’s eyes— steely grey, determined— as he stepped in front of the man, his hand outstretched.

 

*

 

Takahiro tugs the heavy blinds open, filling the room with pale morning light. A servant girl tends to the fire, blowing against the embers until flames flicker, the room slowly warming.

“It is morning.”

The man curls away from the light, pressing his face into the pillow with a groan.

“Enough dramatics, get out of bed.”

A sleepy murmur is muffled against the sheets. Lips twitching into a grin, he presses chilled fingertips against Issei’s cheek, the reaction is as instant as it is entertaining. Wide eyed, Issei startles into a sitting position, hand shooting to his cheek.

Takahiro laughs, the noise dimming into a dry chuckle as he watches the heavy blankets fall and the way Issei’s night shirt rucks up around his torso to reveal a strip of tan coiled muscles. The servant girl averts her eyes with a flush, a piece of wood tumbling from her hands, and she turns absolutely crimson when Issei dismisses her, his voice heavy with sleep, but still charmingly polite.

“It is far too early.” Issei rolls out of bed, not bothering to pull his night shirt down and the girl hurries off, her face dazed happily. 

Issei putters about the room a moment, before ambling over clumsily as he puts on his britches tightly, and Takahiro cranes his neck to glance up at his little lord.

He dislikes how tall he’s grown.

“Certainly not for all,” he moves to lace the back of Issei’s tunic, “that girl was not just flushed from the hearth.”

Ignoring the comment, Issei puts on his leather vest, “Come here.” A small, pleased smile turns his lips, and he leads them to his chest of drawers. Lifting a laden sack that hangs from the corner.

“Peaches.” Takahiro pulls one out, tossing it between his hands, before letting it roll back in the sack, “For the next maiden you bed?”

Issei looks snubbed and pushes the peaches firmly to Takahiro’s chest. He averts his eyes, withdrawing from the bag, and it is then that Takahiro realizes the fruits are intended for him— meant to _impress_ him.

“A diplomat from Karasuno brought them, they are too sweet for me.” Eyes darting along his bottom lid— a falsehood then. For as clever a noble Issei is, as feared an opponent, both in wit and battle, he is still a horrific liar.

“You would gain if you presented them to a maiden instead,” he pushes his sleeves up, his tunic bunching at the elbows, “but I will not complain.”

He reaches for another peach, pressing thumbs down on either side of the stem, splitting the fruit in half. Juice runs along his forearms in sticky strips and without thinking he runs his tongue along the skin, lapping up the sweetness. The line of his sleeve is soaked quickly, and he thinks about making a joke, something crude about late nights and sticky hands. But when he glances up, Issei’s pupils are blown wide, his gaze quickly diverting. There’s a boyish ruddiness to his cheeks, Takahiro notes dully.

Issei is not the child he once was, hasn’t been for years. He is broad, where Takahiro has remained lithe, muscled where he is lean. He grew taller than Takahiro, and then increasingly so since. But, when he looks at Issei he can still see that little boy, something sweet and soft about his features. Like a fine sword still in the hands of a blacksmith, not yet fully crafted, the metal hardening with each strike of the hammer.

“The taste?” He turns forward, and a dark curl springs away from the rest. Takahiro considers smoothing it back.

He doesn’t.

The peach is sweet and heady on his tongue, and drunk on the juice he almost says so. But, Issei’s gaze is heavy, the morning light sharpens his jaw line, brightens the small outline of gray around his pupil. And he knows whim and consequence well, has fallen their victim many times. Still enjoys their lighter folly on occasion, but now Issei looks more a man than ever, and Takahiro steps back.

“It is too sweet for me as well.” He says, clasping the fruits numbly, and looking away.

 

*

 

All the Matsukawa children had toddled after him at one point, even Issei. He understood the girls, so young, their little hands curling in his hair, eyes wide, fascinated by the color. He even understood Touma who was closer in age, his eyes sharper at first, the same stern lines as his father, but still round cheeked and unendingly curious, he grew warmer with time.

And Issei, despite being just a few months younger followed him as if he an older brother. That Takahiro didn’t understand, because he was just a boy as well, and worse he was an arrow pulled too tight, and it made him weary and sharp and so bitter. He waited for his young lordling to grow bored of him, just as his brother did, and later one by one, his sisters.

But, Issei followed him still. Even when his brother’s gaze grew colder, shade and coldness matching his father, but with an edge. Something calculating, eyes narrowed as if to look inside Takahiro, see what made him tick.

Where Touma grew into a sharper version of his father, Issei followed him still. And well, Issei _had_ always been his favorite. He was good and trusting. Sweet curls and a sweeter laugh, a flurry of unconditional affection.

The years went, but Issei remained a constant. And soon he was the only one Takahiro spoke to about the desert. The only one who never sneered at the stories, laughed about that _dreadfully_   _uncivilized place._

Sometimes when the night sky was clear, and the wind not too strong, they would sit on the edge of Kings Peak and gaze across the endless horizon.

“There is Orion’s belt, that one,” he moved Issei’s finger, still much smaller in his grasp, “is Canis Major.”

“You are far better at this than I am.” Issei’s hand flopped back to the grass. Takahiro peeked a glanced at him, but Issei’s expression was controlled as ever, clear of resentment or jealousy.

“I have been practicing since birth,” he pulled one of Issei’s curls, “you will improve.”

“Not, likely,” He did not seem to mind, his lips tugged into a small good natured smile, “I will just keep you close, so you can navigate.”

“So my fate is to be your compass.”

“Or my own personal constellation.” Issei jerked forward then, jamming his finger back up at the sky, “look, a falling star.”

“Catch it before the horizon and your wish will be granted.” He says without thinking.

Issei turned to him, his eyes wide with excitement, “How?”

Takahiro pressed the tips of his thump and forefinger together and held them up. Trailed his hand across the black and the stars, until he was following the bright arch of light cascade across the sky.

Next to him, Issei fell back again, hurriedly holding up his own hand. Their arms arch, synchronized, through the air, until the light disappeared. He didn’t make a wish, had not believed in such things for awhile. But, he watched Issei, his eyes closed tight, his lips moving silently, and he could not surpress a smile.

Nostalgia ran through him and he traced the other constellations. Spent more time on his favorites. Lepus, the hare and Canis Major, the hound, always in chase. And then, he told Issei of the constellations not visible in the north, not taught here, the ones with different names, different meanings. Their hands ran like whispers through the air, each quiet word a precious secret and he was comforted by an endless sky once more. Cradled by the breeze, the air soft and familiar and warm around him.

And he told the boy of the sky, his mother’s voice, a wispy memory with every word. We are born of the horizon, but the sky is our story. The past in the stars and the future in every sunset, and for the present, look up.

We are all connected by the sky, he told the boy. Yes, even you and me.

 

*

 

Takahiro nearly collides with a servant boy when stepping from the training field. Sweat drips from his forehead, and when he flicks it away he catches the boy staring at him. The boy’s gaze lingers high, follows the movement of Takahiro’s hair as it drifts in the breeze.

His face twitches into a smirk, this boy is the king’s messenger, he has forgotten his name. It could have been Tobu, or Toyio, or something like that anyway, but he had raven black locks, and dark blue eyes. And more importantly he remembers how the boy clutched his hair like a life line last night, whispering a strager’s name between pants. Each kiss had been scorching, each thrust achingly good, so he figures Tobu is just as well as Toyio.

The boy’s gaze still lingers, and Takahiro knows he is not a beauty like Tōru, but he has learned his own allure. A tilt of his head, his long neck arched back, his hair— pink in the sun— falls just so against his pale forehead. His smirk widens when the boy averts his eyes, heat pulsing in his cheeks.

Tōru walks over, dismissing the boy with a flick of his wrist. The boy grimaces to the side where Tōru cannot see, and lowers into a shallow bow before hurrying along his original path.

“Tobio has quite the figure.” They watch as the boy, Tobio, he idly reminds himself, stops in front of the elder Lord Matsukawa. The field quiets without the lord’s baritone orders, the tang of swords the only remaining noise.

With a chilly gust of wind Takahiro tugs his cloak on, wrapping it tightly around himself, “I suppose.”

“Shame he doesn’t care for me.” His voice is uncaring and his face sharp, but there’s a lilt to his voice and Takahiro does not wish to play games today.

“Indeed.”

Across the field Hajime’s sword glints as it arches in the air, sparks fly from metal, the blow caught deftly, and Issei steps into a more offensive position.

“One would think a future king would easily obtain who he wanted.” They both know that’s not true, and without looking he knows where Tōru’s gaze has fallen, that they are not speaking of the same boy anymore.

“Power is not given without weighty expectation.”

“I fear, king, a title too heavy.” Tōru’s voice is hushed now, the tone of secrets meant for the wind, but desperate for an ear.

“Only a fool would not.”

Tōru’s eyes widen, perhaps the words were simply meant for the chilly breeze. He wonders how familiar a shape they form to slip out of Tōru’s shrewd lips. How desperate he must be— they were, after all, children the last time they spoke this genuinely.

“I suppose their would have to be something envious of the humble servant, and of you.” Tōru says haughtily, flicking his wrist as if dismissing Tobio again. But, Tōru is not collected today, and the words spoken hastily and without eye contact are easily seen through.

Takahiro just smiles, doesn’t have the heart to tell Tōru why he’s allocated more freedom. Just why it matters not that he lays with ruddy cheeked messenger boys. Doesn’t have the heart to tell Tōru the price of freedom.

The practice battle ends, Hajime holds his sword triumphantly.

Tōru looks frustrated. And Takahiro wishes he had not taken this break, he responds as if the entire conversation a joke, “I am certain they would take your place if you wished it.”

“And you?” The words are bitter, but the sharp edges smoothed, earnest.

Wind tumbles Issei’s curls messily as he approaches, something in Takahiro’s mouth turns stale, “Never.”

The word settles between a few light drops of rain and then the other two are upon them. Their loud steps and boisterous voices a welcome intrusion.

Tōru’s lips twitch with a familiar mischievous smile as Hajime clasps his shoulder roughly, “You quit the field early today.”

Hajime draws back, pulling his arms across his chest, “Not as early as you.”

“I could not leave Takahiro alone, not with his aversion to the cold.”

Issei’s arm moves warmly around him. He wonders if Issei somehow missed the obviously self satisfying lie, but then his eyes flash too gently. And Takahiro knows there is also something self satisfying in this gesture.

The rain falls heavier, Tobio races past, Lord Matsukawa’s booming voice follows shortly after, “The king moved the counsel meeting, it starts now,” he gestures for the boys to mount their horses, gaze stopping on his son’s arm and Takahiro stiffens, “Takahiro, Master Nobuteru will finish your training.”

Issei lingerings a moment too long, before mounting his horse. He glances over his shoulder as he rides away, his lips curled up.

Too gently.

Lord Matsukawa clasps his shoulder as well, his grip much tighter, “Where are you from?”

Another game then, one he hasn’t played in years, “Have you forgotten where you found me, my lord?”

Lord Matsukawa does not appreciate his tongue, he knows this well, but he’s not likely to be hung for it. A slap stings his cheek, his body tenses. How could he forget what his lord capable of?  _Useless, do not forget that word._

“Where are you from?”

And he remembers consequence, he answers dully, “The dirt, my lord.”

“Who is your father?”

“A traitor.”

“And, why do I board you?”

“I could be of useful.”

“Do not make me think otherwise.”

The, ‘or you’ll regret it’ remains unspoken, but hangs fixed between them.

 

*

 

It’s strange he remembers so little of the desert, he was already nine when he last saw sand. Anything tender comes in quick flashes, of his sister, his mother, when he felt fearless under an unending sky.

But he remembers his father clearly.

That day, when he was seven and his father took him by horse to the only water for leagues. It was his first time and when they dismounted he clenched his tunic to keep from racing forward.

He noticed a man laying in front of the oasis, his body withered and bent as he drank. Takahiro looked up with questioning eyes as his father drew his sword. He stood so very great, so tall, his profile far up— shadowed even in the desert sun.

“We are born of the horizon, our hearts beat with the sun.”

Takahiro nodded, stumbling slightly as he repeated the words.

“He is not.” He gestured at man.

As they approached the man raised his head and he couldn’t have been a man, didn’t look much older than Takahiro. The boy’s dark eyes were narrowed, suspicious. His language foreign and desperate landed deadened under his father’s boots. A thin wrist trembled under the weight of a knife.

“But we all end in sand.”

“Wait, father.” He said without thinking, his heart beat a terrified rhythm against his ribs.

His father glanced at him, his expression twisting meanly. “You wish to take his place?”

He looked at the sand, his body trembled.

With a cruel laugh his father reached into his pocket and pulled out a pomegranate. He stuck the edge of his sword in before ripping the fruit in half, “It is your choice then, either I give him this fruit and the sting of my blade, or I let him go.”

“Let him go.” He said it too quickly, with too much concern, so he looked down again, fearing his father would change his mind.

But, he did sheath his sword and the boy scurried off unevenly— he was limping, blood dripping from his thigh.

“You are far crueler than I.” His father dug into the fruit, the juice dripped red, down his hand, from the unkind curl of his lips.

When scouts found the boy’s body a day later, it was burned and hard from sand and sun. His father dragged him to the body, pushed his head down until his nose touched the boy’s.

“We all end in sand.”

The boy’s eyes were wide and unmoving.

They are heavy with accusation, even now.

 

*

 

The air is thick and loud with boisterous conversation when he rejoins the feast. A bit of mead sloshes onto his shoes as the soldier seated next to him, rowdy and ruddy faced, jerks drunkenly to greet him. “Was she good?”

He tips his goblet when he catches Issei peering at him from the head table, just right of his father.

“Want a whiff?” he holds out two fingers, smirking as Tobio slides back into the great hall, a fading blush still high on his cheeks, his hair mused at the top, his lips cherry pink.

The soldier slams his head back with a raucous laugh, then he leans closer, cheeks even redder than before, “Rather have the real thing meself. Would cut of me own fingers, to see under those skirts.”

He follows the man’s finger to the king’s new wife. Her light hair tumbles down her shoulders, almost pink in the glimmering candlelight, her skin white as a dove. They say she is from the east, from the icy sea of Fukurōdani, the same land as his mother. He doesn’t doubt it, her visage is painfully familiar.

He wonders if she worries now that words of war are brewing with her homeland, their homeland, he remembers dully.

Tōru presses his lips to her cheek, and he watches mouths move, the king’s own opening with a laugh before twitching mischievously, perhaps with a challenge for his son. He watches Tōru turn with a wink before pressing an identical kiss against Hajime’s cheek.

Their laughter is loud enough that it reaches him across the hall.

“‘s not my place to say, but they ought marry the boy.” The old man stares into his half empty goblet, “wait much longer he’ll be a queen instead.”

The old man laughs loudly at his own joke, Takahiro forces out a numb chuckle, finishing the remainder of his own goblet.

And then, he leans back and watches the head table, from flushed cheeks, to amused laughs. Issei’s looking at him again. Dangerous. He hunches over, watches Lord Matsukawa’s lips twitch up, amused by the king’s antics and remembers the exact moment he stopped wishing the man his father.

It was only two years after his arrival, when his heart not completely innocent, was still cradled with childhood hope. And Lord Matsukawa’s eyes were flecked with distrust, even then, but they were not so cold.

Issei chased after him, he was shorter still, with a round belly and rounder cheeks.

They collapsed behind the castle, their breathe harsh pants from racing through the garden. Issei eyes were gentle and Takahiro still does not know why he leaned forward.

It was just a press of lips between children.

But, Lord Matsukawa was upon them in moments, he flung them apart, his grip viscously twisting Takahiro’s tunic. The world was washed in white as his head slammed against stone, the side of his face pulsated painfully.

“Never again,” Lord Matsukawa’s profile blurred, his voice sounded thick and faraway, “Leave, Issei. Master Nobuteru is waiting for you.”

“But—,”

“Go.” His voice was cold and harsh, and Issei must have left, because Lord Matsukawa turned his attention forward. “Now listen boy, you come from the dirt.” The stone pressed harder into his back, “Where are you from?” He shook him angrily when a few silent moments past, “Say it boy.”

The world spun with faded spots, but he worked his mouth around the words. “The dirt,” the tunic twisted tighter around his neck and he gasped out, “my lord.” He landed heavily on the ground, his lungs reached desperately for each breathe.

And Lord Matsukawa looked down at him, his profile half in shadow, “Remember, always, you are only here while useful. Do not make me believe you are not.

He has not kissed Issei since, not even on the cheek

 

*

 

Not long after that Lady Matsukawa held a wet rag to his still freshly purpled cheek. He watched her belly, big and round beneath the sheets move with her breathes.

“You are alright, child.” She placed the clothe beside her on the bed, and cupped his right cheek, examining the damage, her fingers pressed a bit too hard.

His eyes stung, and he moved his feet under the chair, the tips of his toes barely skimmed the hard wood.

“You may cry. I would not tell.” Her eyes were the exact shade of Issei’s.

He did not weep. But, pressed the now lukewarm clothe against his cheek. The curl of Lady Matsukawa’s lips was almost proud.

She was a northern women all the way through, tough as leather and stone, and she expected the same from everyone else. The tilt of her head might have looked gentle if it were anyone else, her lips curled further, sharper, “Masamune was just afraid.”

He could not imagine Lord Matsukawa afraid and certainly not then, “He did not appear so.”

“Perhaps you are right, he likes to reach for anger, but, perhaps the two fall together this time.” She eased herself back against the pillows with a low hiss, but her eyes remain fixed on him, “He has noticed Issei watching you.”

“But, hasn’t Issei always seen me?”

“It is not the action of watching, but the way.”

And the conversation felt like Lady Matsukawa was throwing thin threads from a spider’s spool at him, hoping he could craft them into a new web, “My lady, what does that mean?”

“He kissed you back, did he not?” She laughed loudly at his flush.

He kept his head bent down, “Are you mad?”

“I’ll tell you a secret if you promise not to tell,” her voice weaved airy and hushed now, like half forgotten memories in the early morning light, “someone once looked at me that way, a someone who was not supposed too.”

“What happened?” He whispered the question so desperately he felt like he was telling a secret as well.

She rubbed her belly, “I choose duty instead.” It was almost summer, but a cooler breeze wafted through the window and ruffled her night shirt daintily. But, her eyes grew fiery with the wind, her hair a dark blazing halo a top her head, “Perhaps one day, when my children are grown, I shall make the braver choice.”

She died not a month later giving birth to her fifth and final child.

And Takahiro, still young and too cynical for his age wondered if she was being punished. He would unpack the conversation, lay it in front of himself as if it a feast. But, all he could every see were the fruits, smushed and bruised. Their juices spread, stain— a warning.

 

*

 

The king and his party ride back to the capital at dawn. It had been quite comical watching the king’s guard stumble, their bellies still full of mead, as they hoisted themselves atop their steeds.

But, it is quiet now their friends are gone, the moon hung high, cradled in the inky black sky. His head still aches from drink and he walks slowly towards the stable, hoping to find new company now Tobio is gone. The barn door is still cold against his back and has just started flirting with a tall stable boy when they hear the sound of thundering footsteps. A singular lantern sways fiercely in the dark. And Issei appears, his lantern clattering to the ground once within the dim circle of light reaching from the barn.

The stable boy stands straight and ridged, his hand moving to remove a hat that isn’t there before realizing his mistake and snapping his arm behind his back.

“Leave.” His gaze is hard and focused on Takahiro, but it’s the stable boy’s footsteps that recede into the distance.

“Why are you here?”

Issei gaze is intense, and Takahiro slows his breathing so it doesn’t quicken with his heart.

“You did not return to your room.” His gaze narrows, “What are you doing awake and alone this late?”

He’s jealous, he thinks. This is _dangerous_ , he knows. He presses back against the barn door, “Perhaps you did not notice, but I had company.”

Issei steps forward, “The king’s messenger boy just left and you already search for another hole before the new sun even rises,” and he allows the comment, can smell the alcohol hot and thick on his breathe.

Squaring his shoulders and lifting his head he tries to appear bigger as he squishes against the door.

“Or, perhaps you prefer to be the maiden.” Issei steps closer and he wonders, _worries,_  how much he’s had to drink. Who he drank with. If Issei waited in front of his room, gulped down more alcohol, and then came in search, concerned, when he did not return.

But, all he says is, “You have drunk too much.”

“Was it not you, who told me that impossible?” Issei places his hands on either side of Takahiro, boxing him in.

And he’s watching him, in that way, as a man watches a woman. The way he has made countless men look at him before. His stomach turns—hot and desperate.

“I was wrong.”

“Perhaps a taste would help you decide the correct answer.” Issei pulls a half full bottle of wine from his cloak, tugging the cork off with his teeth.

And he takes the bottle and dislodges the cork from Issei’s mouth, and pushing it back in, “You should rest.”

“Never known you to turn down drink.” Issei makes a movement for the wine, but stumbles, missing the bottle, as Takahiro secures it in his cloak.

“You have drunk enough for both of us,” he moves to tug them away from the barn, “Now come along, little boy.”

But, Issei just presses closer, “I see the way you watch me.” His hand moves, gentle and loose along his waist, neck, a thumb brushing his jaw.

They share breathes with each ragged exhale. And he should stop this, he knows that, but he can feel a delicious tension curling in his chest, and he is thirsting for this, so he asks, “And how is that?”

“Your head is tilted just so,” Issei’s hands fumble a moment, before his thumb presses against his chin, angling his face, “your gaze half lidded, and your eyelashes, usually so pale, catch every light,” a finger lingers under his left eye, before moving down again, “but, what makes this look special is the curve of your lips.” he traces his mouth.

Issei’s gaze flickers up, the sides of his eyes crinkled happily, but the rapid movement of his eyeballs give away his nerves. He flicks his eyes across Takahiro’s face, before he glances back down, practically exhaling, “There it is.”

He visible relaxes, eyes stilling, shoulders slumped and he places his calloused thumb along the edge of Takahiro’s mouth. And Takahiro stops thinking completely when he moves forward, bodily pressing them together tightly.

“I never thought,” he grinds forward until he feels hardness and heat, “you would become a poet for a fuck.”

Issei groans his eyes earnest and wide, “Not just fucking.”

“What, do you wish to suck first, my lord?” He laughs.

He has forgotten consequence. Forgotten the horizon and the sand. And the dangerous gleam in Lord Matsukawa’s eye. All that matters is now, the heat and the feeling and the pleasure. And Issei, _so close._

Issei moves both hands to his waist, stopping him from grinding.

He swallows, “No, I mean that’s not all I want with you.”

And it is all ruined. Takahiro feels as if he’s been burned. He pushes Issei away putting distance between them.

Belatedly Issei’s hand follows him, the tips of his fingers just brushing his right cheek. And he feels the touch as a phantom pain, a sore purpling bruise.

“No,” he flicks his gaze searching for any hidden silhouettes, his eyes thunder back to Issei when he opens his mouth, “why are you here?”

“Hiro, what, I told you—.”

“Why are you _here,_ at this castle?”

“What? I was born here? I don’t—.”

“And for what _purpose_  were you born?”

Issei’s eyes narrow, and he remains silent, perhaps he already caught onto the game.

Each word lies bitterly on his tongue, but they are right, Issei is not born of the horizon, has not learned its dangers and Takahiro will not see him become dirt.

“Remember that,” he turns and looks over his shoulder, he smiles unwaveringly before walking into the darkness, “you should rest.”

He drinks the other half of Issei’s wine when in his room, but it quenches nothing, least of all his thirst.

 

*

 

And he knows thirst.

He spent two days under the scorching sun, riding and then leading his horse away from the smoking ruins of his village. And when she collapsed he knew she would not survive the day, but he gave her a final handful of water. Between harsh wind and sand he heard his father call him weak, but he held out more water. He pet her withers gently, steel heavy in his hand. His lips tasting of salt and sand, as the ground turned red.

‘We end in sand.’ He whispered closing her eyes, his cheeks already dried by the hot air.

He walked as day turned to night, followed Orion’s Belt when the stars appeared above. And it wasn’t until dawn that he saw the mountains, just specks in the distance. His canteen was empty by the time sand became grassland and then darker soil. He stumbled forward still, until the path grew cooler, a thick canopy above him, and walked aimless without the expansive sky guiding him.

And he knew thirst when he drank the last drops of morning dew from prickly, green leaves.

He does not know how long he wandered, mouth dry and cracked before they found him. Metal on his neck, steely grey eyes, cool water. The journey after was a blur, even as he recovered, every day monotonously adding up to weeks or months, forest becoming mountians. Countless tents, crass laughter, men lording their latest kill. Lurching on a horse, trying to remain seated, a hand smaller than his own gripping his waist. A child’s voice asking innocent questions, but all he could think of was fire and blood and sand.

A day of sweet comfort in the castle before rumors reached its torrents, whispers of his father surrendering the rest of his empire to the very same southern raiders who had slain his family. How he broke the alliance with the north. ‘Traitor’, they whispered.

‘His son survived,’ their lips curled. Voices rising in a cacophony of distain, ‘his father, traitor, coward, dirt, punish.’

He was not surprised when the guards came, but Issei cried when they dragged him away. He tried twisting his lips reassuringly, ‘it’s not your fault.’

He knew thirst when the guards called him dirt, when they more often poured water on the dungeon floor then give him the mug. They laughed when he kneeled, lapping the water off stone. He wondered if they would stop coming, if they would remember a week later, a month later, and laugh at his eyes opened wide and empty.

We all end in sand.

No, he thought, I’ll end in dirt.

He was never told why they let him out and can only think of one reason, _You will be useful one day_.

 

*

 

That day arrived on rust colored wings, a southern hawk.

Lord Matsukawa went south to Karasano for diplomatic meetings a mere fortnight ago, leaving Issei to rule in his place. The days since have unraveled monotonously.

He practices alone now, swings his sword against a half frozen bale of hay, picks up a bow when that grows boring. He’s up at dawn, practices all day and falls asleep with a bottle of ale in hand. A glimpse of Issei between a crowd of counsel men or the guards or his many siblings.

They’ve only shared a few tense, overly polite words since the stables. He does not try catching Issei’s eye anymore. But, yellowed parchment weighs heavily in his pocket. The loneliness stings more with it. So, he pulls his cloak tighter, the pale early chill chasing him through the castle.

He is surprised to find Issei awake, already buttoning his vest. He pushes the thought away unwilling to think of all he’s missed, all he will miss, instead he says, “Race me.”

Issei finishes with his buttons before looking up with a flat expression, “Perhaps that request is more suited for a child.”

“With horses.”

“I understood that.”

He picks at his britches lightly, “You used to enjoy racing.”

“We were boys.”

“Maybe,” his grin is cocky and completely humorless, “one of us still is.”

Issei’s eyebrows cut down sharply, “I am busy.”

“The sun has not fully risen, your counsel will sleep for hours more.”

“I am lord in my father’s absence, there are many responsibilities I must attend to.”

“Then order me to leave, my lord.”

Issei jerks back before his eyes flash, the look so hard and intense that he shivers. They haven’t discussed what happened, have barely looked at each other. The topic lies between them molded and rotten like a forgotten piece of fruit.

Neither of them speak, but they don’t look away either. It’s Issei, who finally relents, “Fine.”

And they ride both aimlessly and on paths they’ve gone countless times before. They stop at a familiar river bank, if it were summer they could have swam, he tries remembering which year the old rope swing snapped.

He thinks of asking Issei, but his expression is pulled tight and tense. A thick sheet of ice floats by. He pulls his cloak tighter.

“You are cold.”

“Are you not?”

“I’m actually very warm.” Issei throws a stone and it hits the ice, splitting it in half, “I may be overheating.”

“I have heard fools do not get cold.”

And that would have been taken as jest once, but now Issei’s voice is tensed, “I have no time for this. What do you want?”

“Merely a ride to gaze over your vast dominion, my lord.” He wonders if his grin is as ugly as it feels.

Issei neutral expression twitches, he brings his face closer, “What do you want from _me_ , Hiro?”

“The same as I have always wanted.”

“I don’t—. Just tell me.” A frown cuts sharply across his features, “You pull me closer and then push me away, and I don’t know—”

“No you don’t.” He looks at him bitterly, “you don’t understand, I will never want _anything_ from you.”

Issei jerks back, “Because we are men?” his voice loud, the same harsh cadence as the stones moving underfoot,“From what I hear you have no problem with such things.”

“It is not about them,” he snarls, “or me. Think of your position.”

“You think I have not?” Then Issei’s there, right in front of him, pressing him against a tree, and he’s so _close_ , “I have thought endlessly of it, nothing has plagued my mind as much.”

Issei is so poised in his anger, it’s something monsterous, shrunk down and controlled with a precise elegance. And Takahiro, is on top a mountain, harsh wind blowing him between sharp words and emotions. He feels left behind by the boy who used to stumble after him.

He yanks the parchment from his cloak, “Then perhaps this will put your mind at ease, a letter from your father.”

He expects to rattle Issei, at the very least, but his face remains stoney as he reads. When he speaks, though, the harsh tone is gone, replaced by something quiet, almost tender if it weren’t so angry, “You are leaving?”

“In less than a fortnight, weather permitting.” He repeats the information plainly written before them, watching Issei’s scan the parchment a second time. “They send a party to collect me and I meet my father at the southern border.”

He thought Issei would move forward, and beat his fists into bark petulantly. That he might cry, that they might kiss, but he did not expected him to turn and stride away.

And he pulls his hand away, as if burned, from Issei’s shoulder when he looks back, his face twisted in anger. All sharp jaw and narrowed eyes, the face of a lord. His voice is steely, “I will send a letter, this plan will not become reality.”

A laugh burst from deep within him, the sound lands between them, unamused and cruel, “You will change nothing.”

“And you leaving will change nothing.” Issei breaths are thundering as if he’d come from battle, “There is no stopping this war.”

“And no matter which side we will all be its pawns.”

“But, if you leave I cannot protect you.”

The words reverberate across the stream, each echo quieter than the last, but he does not let them quiet fully, does not give Issei’s harsh breathing time to calm, he spits out his response as if it poison, “I do not need your protection.”

Issei does not anger again, instead his face softens and he walks forward like he’s approaching a feral dog he knows can be tamed, “I still wish to give it.”

“Then you are a fool. Your enemies will use that weakness against you.” He says it cruelly, tauntingly, hoping for a reaction.

But, Issei remains calm, “And you are not my enemy.”

He pushes Issei hard, watches him stumble back a step, “But, it is not so easy to determine friend or foe.”

“Do you want to use my weakness, then?” Issei holds his arms out, his face achingly neutral, “Do it. I will not stop you.”

Arms opened, chest exposed, sword still attached to his saddle, Issei just stands there, completely unguarded. And Takahiro just sags, “I could not.”

Issei is upon him again, his fingers digging into his arm, “Then swear allegiance to me.” ‘Stay with me.’

‘It is not my choice.’ “That is what you ask of knights, not dirt hostages.” He knows his grin is a bitter thing.

“I never thought of you that way.”

“Whether you a fool or good man, I shall never know.” He grins again, softer this time, “perhaps a mixture.”

A lopsided smile, “Would you become this fool’s knight?”

Takahiro takes his sword from its sheath and hands it to Issei, before kneeling on the ground before him, “There is no need to ask. I will give you all I am able.”

The weight of the sword presses against his shoulders and when he looks up Issei is stood so great, so tall above him. The morning light streaming down from the sky, bathes his face in it’s soft glow, alighting his messy curls. Issei holds out his hand and pulls him from the dirt.

And it is a long time til sunset and he is far from sand, but he knows his end will be for this man.

 

*

 

The week brings darker news from the south, and he does not weep.

Neither does Issei, at least not right away. He sits in the garden, slumped against a tree, his quill poised, unmoving over a piece of parchment.

“I don’t have time to talk.” his voice small, but fluctuating thickly.

The words are a dismissal, but Takahiro steps forward, until he is in front of Issei and remains silent.

“Why are you not mourning?”

“My father is with the sand, that is the way.” He moves to his side and crouches, resting an arm against the tree, “Yours, however, is not.”

“It will not be long.” His voice is just a whisper now, small like a child’s, “With what I must do now, he will be dead within the week.”

Something large and hollow settles in his stomach at the tone. Advice he could give, but, “I fear I am not the best at comforting,” and he tries to keep his voice calm, neutral, “but, if you need it, I will try.”

Issei does not respond and Takahiro thinks he may not have heard, but then he turns, his arms wrap around him, his head heavy and wet on his shoulder.

He was taught to be a ruthless sand storm, and the mountains tried to teach him restraint, but Issei, well he taught him kindness. Perhaps, he is dirt compressed until it became stone, so hard and unbending, but for Issei he tries. He awkwardly tugs him closer, runs his fingers through curls, pats a trembling shoulder blade, and after what could have been moments or hours, Issei stills with a final choked sob. He looks up, his grey eyes— his mothers eyes— wide and glossy with tears. And for a moment, he looks a boy again.

Issei presses their foreheads together, “The hostage terms are too high, they expect me to leave my father to die.”

His heart clenches, not for the man to be hanged, but the boy forced to make the decision, “You are lord here, they cannot make you.”

“The king,” he swipes a tired finger under his eye, “agrees with them. I have no choice.”

“But you do, even in the desert we knew of the mountains, the wildest region of the north that even Aobajōsai could not fully conquer. If you said it loud enough, the king would listen.”

“We would lose everything. Karasuno and its allies would be upon us in an instant. I could not do that, not even for my father.”

“Then, you know what must be done.” He speaks without thinking, “The dying are already dead.”

And for a moment Issei looks at him as if he’s frightened of him, “That is cruel.”

“It is what I was taught. It is survival.” He shoots back, “They will expect you to take revenge, and even if you don’t we will soon see war. You should wield your grief, it can be—.”

Issei kisses him.

It’s nothing like that first childish press of lips. Issei tastes of tears, and is rough with want. He pulls them closer together, his hand clenched in Takahiro’s hair, his tongue prying until it pushes in wet and hot, claiming his mouth.

Takahiro remains still a moment, mind jumbled before pressing back fervently, clasping arms around broad shoulders. Then Issei jolts forward, and he loses balance on his heels, falling back. And Issei’s on top of him, mouth desperate, hands fervently running down his chest, along his hip, his thighs. His legs fall apart at the touch and Issei slip between them and when he feels his clothed dick hard and hot, he moans.

His body shudders, his dick hardens, and his hips press forward, frantic for more friction. Issei holds him to the ground, and dominates the kiss. But, he reaches jerkily down, his fingers hesitant as they curl along the hem of his britches, and it’s all so unexperienced. Needy and desperate.

So _desperate_. Clarity cuts through heated desire long enough for him to break the kiss. Issei chases his lips, but he turns his head, “We should not do this now.”

Issei leans back with a frustrated noise, his cheeks still wet with tears, “Then when?”

His grins sharply, “Do you really believe it a good idea we ever do this?”

“You already know my answer.” Issei laughs. He can’t decide if it sounds more bitter or amused.

“And you know mine.”

Issei looks down at him a moment more, his breath still heavy. And Takahiro watches him, as his expression becomes guarded. Watches him as he pushes himself up, leans against the tree.

He watches him curl forward, his figure strained and stiff. And he stays as the sun peters beneath the horizon and the moonless sky leaves the garden dark.

He wants to comfort but that he was never taught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo it might be awhile before I upload the next part, sorry :,)))
> 
> Feedback is greatly appreciated ! Let me know if there’s anything you really want to see in the next chapters
> 
> <3


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

 

II

 

 

 

 

It began with two brothers— Moto and Yama. They were born of dead winter, but were sired by the sun and from ice and snow they brought light. The land made fertile by their every step, by each sweet tendril of sun, and the mortals finally free of the barren cold, treated them as gods.

With light at their heels they wandered until there was only one final pocket of darkness in a bay surrounded by thick sheets of ice. They were draw to the dark bay and with all their might they unfroze its depths. The lake shined brightly in the light, each bright reflection upon the waves was pulled from the water and swirled before the brothers a moment, before lifting into the air as one. And the moon took its place among the stars.

Moto and Yama celebrated the new light, they did not know the moon’s capture was their third brother. Conceived just of winter and more ancient and fearsome then they, Kage was the icy sea. He could not step from his dark, cold domain, and was enraged the moon’s light was taken from him.

So, he swept forward with a great tidal push and rose an army of the sea. He spread, frozen and deadly, closer to the mortals. The three brothers clashed, but Moto and Yama were unable to stop the powerful sea and when the icy water was almost upon them and all was thought lost, Yama, to protect his brother, to protect the mortals he had grown to love, stooped low across the land turning his body into a mountain range. And the sea, unable to cross his bounds lay forever north, churning wildly and unfulfilled.

Moto, who had wandered with Yama since the dawn of light, settled in the cradle of his brother’s creation. Living and dying mortal, the first king of the mountain.

“Is a peak his manhood then?”

Issei laughed, stifling the noise when Master Nobuteru creaked an eye over his battered history book, his eyebrow moving up dangerously before he shifted his attention back to the page, his voice a steadfast drone through the motion.

“What about Moto then,” Hanamaki leaned closer, his voice hushed, “would he be the size of a mountain as well?”

This time Issei pushed his laugh into the sleeve of his tunic, eyeing Master Nobuteru wearily a moment, before he looked back at Hanamaki with a mischievous grin, “Well, they were brothers.”

He quoted Master Nobuteru, making his voice dry and monotone, “Are we not brothers, equal in all that is light?”

“An interesting interpretation.” Issei’s tone matched his, but added their teacher’s sardonic twist.

“I am a scholar.” He answered with just as much pomp.

Issei raised an eyebrow, mockingly, “And I a mountain.”

“Surely you flatter yourself.”

“They are my ancestors.”

“Equal only in the dimmest of lighting.”

“But they are not my brothers. But you and I—.” Issei trails off with a cheeky grin, “Although I am still much larger.”

“Ah,” he curved his lips around the sound, delighted when he caught Issei transfixed on the shape. He pitched his voice mockingly, “I’m honored you took the time to notice, my lord.”

Takahiro gestured crudely to his lap and Issei’s gaze flicked down, only to startle back up moments later. And, still a boy, he flushed high on his cheekbones. Because, sudden growth aside, Issei was _just_ a boy. His gaze heated, but inexperienced, lingered longer with each day. He suspected that began when Issei stopped coming to his room after nightmares and when more than likely, he began playing with himself in the dark. He had actually thought of asking just that to see how flushed Issei could become.

Issei, still lightly red faced, smiled slyly, “But you do not deny us brothers?” 

“Perhaps in size.” He teased.

Issei held a hand to his heart, his voice shifted to a high falsetto, “How cold, you would deny our connection?”

And Master Nobuteru did slam his book closed then, “If you two insist on interrupting my lesson, perhaps you have too much energy.”

They groaned as they were forced outside to run laps around the castle.

And later, when they had finished and he was still cold from snow, but heated from exertion, and perhaps too loosed lipped, he does agree, “We are brothers.”

Just not aloud.

 

*

 

The battles are endless. 

They have razed a path through disputed territory and nomadic villages, cutting down southern soldiers and their allies. Months of blood and ash. 

And steel.

He cuts down another enemy, and his eyes, as they do in every reprieve no matter how brief, turn to Issei. There is something protective in the urge, a constant worrying in his chest, but he is also undeniably mesmerized. Issei stands not at the center, that is where Hajime is— all passion and glory and hard won battles. No, Issei is a different kind of danger. He fights precisely, each movement of steel calculated and understated, until they are not. And in a moment his opponent lays on the mud, a curl of surprise on still lips.

He watches spellbound as Issei’s sword arches through the air. For as focused every move is, he is no less fluid and metal extends from his hand as if connected. A devastating and beautiful dance of flesh and steel.

A splash of red hits Issei’s armour, and Takahiro has never liked that dark ugly color. It drips down his chest plate like curled gnarled fingers. As if death leans over his shoulder, clutching him like he belongs, as if he were meant to hold a scythe and reap. 

He remembers an outstretched hand from a lifetime ago.

And he keeps watching, does not think he could look away. Between mud and steel and blood he watches as Issei’s next opponent falls to the ground, the figure writhes, his leg mangled. And Issei does not hesitate.

  

*

 

“You are drunk.” He points to the stars weakly, but his chest jerks with raucous laughs. The world spins, the lights above him move, frenzied and blurred.

Something dark pops right above his finger, leaving the sky obscured, emptied. The something makes noises, and he presses his finger against it, realizing as he lets his hand flop back to earth, that it a someone. That the noises are words, more like babbling he realizes as he concentrates.

“—alright? I saw you were sick. Do I get help?”

“No.” Hanamaki tries waving him off, giving up at the heaviness of his hand, “Just drunk.” He feels he should say more, but his tongue is weighted as well. The voice continues rambling worriedly, so he interrupts hoping to quiet the tittering, “Water.”

“Yes, my lord.” The figure fumbles and a canteen is brought to his mouth, he guzzles it, the water sloppily falling from the sides of his mouth, before his head is lifted and liquid finally presses cooly down his throat.

Once finished, he lets his head lull back to earth and clenches his eyes closed until the earth stops moving so much. The figure presses something cool to his forehead and blearily, he recognizes them, they have done this enough times before, but the drink still muddles, so he asks, “Kindaichi?”

“Yes, Lord Hanamaki.”

“No need to call me lord,” Takahiro says hazily as he thinks of the spiked cactus that grow in the desert. Focusing more intently, he can see the telling outline of ridged hair.

He watches it as Kindaichi shakes his head, laughing when it remains still. Only pausing when Kindaichi interrupts, tone overly serious to the point of earnest, “I must address you,” he pauses as if searching for an unfamiliar word, “properly, my lord.”

“You call me lord, but do not listen to me.” He says between cackles and he sloshes a hand to the side patting what feels to be a very tensed ankle. “I do not care what you call me, but move your head.” Kindaichi’s head jerks into a bow, and Takahiro clumsily grabs at his pant leg, “No, not—. I meant,” he gestures above them, “stars.”

Kindaichi fumbles a moment, before moving to the side and the sky appears above Takahiro in a dizzying brilliant burst. The stars are spread, so beautiful, so vast, each light older than him, older than anything he knows. He wonders how many have lain beneath them as he does now, if they have felt pain and worry as he has. If they have loved as he loves.

The stars blur again as his eyes begin creasing closed. And as always, he asks, “Did Issei send you?”

He can hear the grass rustle next to him, Kindaichi clears his throat awkwardly, “He worries.”

“It is war,” he grits out, as if Kindaichi had forgotten, as if anyone short of drinking themselves to death could forget, “we all worry. I do not need this,” he presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, until he sees burst of light and ends the sentence with a frustrated noise.

Kindaichi remains silent and this is already the most he has admitted to on the matter, so Takahiro just grumbles, his words slurring, “Do not be late for training tomorrow.”

 

*

 

Hajime flings the latest letter from the capital across the table, “What does this even fucking mean?” 

“It means no more men will be sent from the capital and not because there are none.”

Hajime snaps his head up, face twisted with anger, “I do not think you realize what you suggest?”

“If it is that the king is a jealous old fool, then yes.” He digs a piece of dirt from under his fingernail, enjoying Hajime’s angry shriek.

He idly wipes the dirt on the tent wall, Issei’s private quarters were, in his opinion, far too nice. And he stands up casually as Hajime thunders towards him.

“Enough.” Issei’s voice carries through the tent.

But Hajime remains on path, twisting the neckline of his tunic in a clenched fist, practically snarling, “He should not spew those lies.”

“They are the truth.” He says each word clear and impassive. Hajime tightens is grip, enraged by the tone, by the sheer _insolence_. And he hears that word often from Hajime lately, both in tone and directly. The frustrated ball curled tightly in his chest is encased in a thin sheet of satisfied glee at the reaction.

As the king’s letters from the capital have grown more paranoid, Tōru’s have stopped all together and it has left Hajime furious at the best of times, but with anything related to Tōru put into question, he becomes incensed. Takahiro does not enjoy taunting Hajime, but the situation has left him utterly frustrated.

Hajime pulls the fabric tighter and snarls, “You know nothing, he is not your king.”

Takahiro jerks from impassive to a cold anger, “My _apologies_ , how could I forget my place.” Hajime falters, his grip slipping from the tunic. What might be regret, but more resembles pity flickers across his face, and Takahiro bristles. The skin of his knuckles clenched white, a call for blood. And he does not care whose, it could even drip from his own splintered hand, he just wants that expression off Hajime’s face.

“Enough,” Issei says, softer this time. Hajime’s already moved away, but Issei still places himself between them and it is Takahiro he gives a _look_ and directs with finality, “Save your heat for the battlefield.”

The implication of fault stings more than anything Hajime could have said. Takahiro sets his face stonily.

Issei just nods when neither acknowledge him, “Hajime would you see to the battle preparations?” He does so, gloomily, head downcast, and Takahiro feels nothing at his displeasure now. Does not turn his glare away from his once little lordling. 

“So you blame me for that entire episode?” He bites out once the tent flap closes. 

“You antagonize him.” Issei looks at him impassively and Takahiro immediately recognizes his strategist face.

“No.” He smooths down his wrinkled tunic with a forced calm, “I tell him the truth.”

“Your perception of it.”

“Surely you are not so blind?”

Issei’s expression remains annoyingly placid. “He is our king.”

“Have we not read the same letters? The man sabotages his own army, because he fears their love for you. Do not act a soldier with no head, it does not suit you.” Despite his best efforts to sound cooly critical, each word is more imploring, laced with more desperation.

“And I didn’t think you such a fool.” Issei responds, voice still so controlled, but with the first hints of exhaustion evident. 

“At least I am not blind.” And then it dawns on him, “You choose to ignore his failing.” He says the words slowly, watching as Issei’s gaze flickers down and that is all the response he needs. “Do you not see the sheer stupidity in that?” Takahiro steps forward in his frustration, to make him see the dangers, but falters when Issei looks up— blank faced and so distant. 

“Must I repeat myself, he is our _king_. There is no option in his rule.”

“Was I not just reminded a moment ago that he is not my king?” Takahiro does step forward this time, trying to emphasize his every word with their increasing proximity. He stops when their chests are a hair width apart, “It was _you_ I went to my knees for. You who I am loyal too. Do not get me killed because of another man’s fickleness.”

A half repressed memory of the last time they were this close, pressed between green grass and the sky flickers across his eyelids, but in a blink, the image is gone and Issei is already striding away.

“And I have kneeled before the king, so where does that leave you?” Issei fastens his sword about himself, his gaze snapping to the exit when a single war horn blows in the distance.

“No matter your own, my loyalties are to you. And you,” he stops Issei before he walks past— putting fist to armoured chest with a tangy clang, “you would die for his vanity?”

He can hear the men chanting just outside the tent, they call for their lord to lead them to glory. He can already feel their breathe hot and ready for battle, desperate for blood. And Issei moves his fist aside, walks to their call, only pausing at the exit, his expression already hard and twisted for battle, “In a moment we will be nothing more than soldiers, but the king, he will appear before each man at the end, as their homes, their families, whatever they choose to cherish with final breathe. He is _our_ kingdom, what we fight for, and if I must, I will die for that.”

He recognizes these words, for a moment sees the sharp figure of Lord Matsukawa before him. The unending drill of loyalty above all else. They had seemed much less empty then when the king was just a man who drank and laughed too much.

Issei does not shift his gaze away as he pulls the tent flap back letting the sun shine brightly through the opening. And the men’s voices rise louder at the appearance of their lord. Perhaps Issei seeks to inspire him with their calls, but Takahiro cannot think beyond the light falling across his face in bright tendrils. Cannot think past the scars put in sharp relief— he is familiar with each line, old and new. The one on his chin, from when they were children playing at war in the castle. To the newest, still red and blistered running along the edge of his eyebrow, received in battle not a week ago. He knows there are more beneath armour, has spent long nights applying herb and bandage to them.

He could count them without looking. And he can count the steps Issei takes to the tent’s threshold. But beyond, when his figure consumed by the bright sun and the roar of men, that is unknowable. 

And Takahiro follows him.

 

*

 

They call Issei the Mountain King. And he looks a king on his jet black steed, thundering into battle.

He looks like he was plucked from the enormous painting that still takes up an entire wall in the deceased Lord Matsukawa’s study.

Takahiro had only entered that room a handful of times, the painting overwhelming him each time, but the first time he had staggered when he saw it, his eyes flittered across the canvas, unable to settle. 

“The last battle of the mountain kingdom.” Lord Matsukawa had said, “Before he fell that day, Matsukawa Katashi defeated a thousand Aobajōsai soldiers with only his cavalry.” Takahiro glanced at him, noting the way his eyes were fixed on the painting, that there was something unfamiliar in his voice, in his countenance. Something he might have seen directed towards Issei once, that time he shot a particularly large buck.

“It is beautiful?” Takahiro turned back to the painting, he had never seen anything like it. Hundreds of mounted soldiers, their bodies twisted handsomely, faces well carved busts as they coated their swords red. Even death looked elegant upon the canvas with only tiny streams of red from mortal wounds. The graceful spread of limbs across the ground, and the honeyed curves of mouths, all beautiful. And their eyes closed as if just enjoying a sweet dream.

He had wondered if that was what war looked like, he would not know if it a lie— he had only ever witnessed slaughter.

“It is.” Lord Matsukawa remained hungrily fixed on the painting.

Takahiro stood in front of the canvas and for a moment thought he saw a sweet curve of lips twist up further, stretching into something horrific. An eye opened, revealing a dark empty hole.

He felt sick.

 

*

 

“And with a golden spear still impaled in its chest, they say the beast eternally roams the bay, searching for,” Takahiro discretely moves his hand so it hovers behind Kindaichi’s back watching as Kunimi looks around the fire, letting it flicker sharply over his face before sharply hissing, “flesh.” Takahiro grabs Kindaichi’s shoulder hard at the word.

Laughing as Kindaichi springs from his seat, before clumsily falling to the ground with a frightened grunt and the men roar around the fire. Kunimi shares a smug look with Takahiro before hiding it behind his mug.

“That was unkind.” Watari comments, but there is no denying the amusement in even his voice.

Takahiro, not one to cross the medic, holds back his remaining laughter and shifts his expression into one of cheery defense, holding his hand out to Kindaichi judicially. 

Kindaichi scowls, but excepts the hand, grumbling, “You didn’t even tell the story right.” 

“Excuse me?” Kunimi lifts an eyebrow primly.

“We tell it differently in the Bay of Ice,” Kindaichi looks nervous a moment before sitting up straighter, “and I have seen this beast.” 

“This again.” Kunimi huffs, “Only a child would believe that story.”

“It’s the truth!”

“It is just your mind playing tricks.” Kunimi shoots back. 

“Perhaps we should all hear this tale?” Watari interrupts their back and forth with a steady hand on Kindaichi’s shoulder. “There are, after all, many unexplainable occurrences in this world.” He turns to Kunimi, still smiling, but eyes narrowed, as if daring for a challenge. Takahiro can barely refrain from laughing at the pout that creeps onto Kunimi’s usually nonplussed face.

Watari nudges Kindaichi, “Well? Tell us of this beast?”

Kindaichi flushes as all eyes turn to him, he looks suddenly like the boy that had enlisted a year ago, his face hollowed and pained. His clothes ragged, barely held together by a patchwork of stitches, and exposed fingers and toes bright red against a flurry of spring snow. Splotches of purple and yellowing bruises covering visible skin. He will not admit to it, but he had felt something tender upon seeing the boy, and feels it again now.

Sobered, he turns to Kindaichi, “You do not have to.”

Kindaichi shakes his head, and moves a shaking hand closer to the fire, “In the bay, even young children know not to go near the water’s edge at night. It is something we are all told, but you can also feel it. Something lurks in the dark water. The common belief is that it is a beast, with horns and a spear impaled in its chest.” His eyes dart to Kunimi before settling on the fire, “I believed that a long time too, until it was before me.” Kindaichi shivers, his voice growing softer.

He pauses and Yuda, eyes wide, practically shaking in his seat urges him on, “What happened?” A few other men speak up in agreement, there eyes alight with interest.

Kindaichi slowly begins talking again, voice even quieter than before, “One night I woke to a storm, it must have brought the tide all the way to our village, because when I stepped from my pallet the floor was wet. Outside people were running to higher ground, I was about to follow them, but then there was this terrible noise. I didn’t think there could be anything so awful, but then I saw his back,  _its_ back, for it could not have been a man, silvery white, and at least two times the height of any man. I watched it drag a man into water, I couldn’t do anything, I didn’t—.” He pauses a moment voice ragged before clearing his throat, “I managed to flee inland, but we lost fifteen souls that night.”

“Are you sure it was not a bear?” Yahaba asks kindly, “They are sometimes silver that far north.”

“No, it did not move like an animal or a human, it was—.” Kindaichi cuts himself off, looking more than a little unsettled.

“In the mountains we know that creature as Kage,” most of them startle, as Issei steps from the shadows, and throws a bit of kindling to the fire, “he is son of winter and brother of the mountain and the first king.” 

“Fuck sakes Issei at least make some noise.” 

He squishes himself next to Takahiro with an amused smile, “Were you frightened?”

Takahiro hopes the gentle comradery means they have made up from their latest fight about the king. He shoots Issei a faint smile, but still he does have a reputation to maintain, so he snarks back, “Who would not at the shock of seeing such a face emerge from darkness.” 

“Oh, you refer to my nymph like beauty?”

Before Takahiro can respond scathingly, Kindaichi peers over him to look at Issei, “Kage? But he was sealed far from shore, my lord?”

“And just a myth.” Kunimi adds sullenly, resolutely looking away from Watari. 

“Probably,” Issei chuckles, “it is an old tale. But, for those who believe, some think Kage can still come to shore during a lunar eclipse.”

“The love story of Yama and the moon.” Takahiro rolls his eyes, “Now _that_ is just one of Master Nobuteru’s foolish romance tales.”

“Romance? Finally a story with maidens.” Yahaba flicks his hair. “Just recently I bedded the most beautiful woman.”

“Look what you have done,” Issei moves closer, and Takahiro is glad the darkness hides the flush that forms at the breathe skimming the edge of his ear, “he will never quiet now.” 

“You began this,” he says leaning away, just as Yahaba refrains that ‘her hair was spun from pure gold and her eyes—’, Takahiro scowls, “but I will apologize, this is awful.”

“I will also seek forgiveness.” He curls his lip as well.

“I fear if this is our torture we truly are too late for that.”

 

*

 

“The cavalry will ride from the hill with the foot soldiers already in place to the east.” The old man, moves the soldiers across the map.

He is in yet another war meeting. He used to enjoy them, liked winding up the old, conceited advisors as they spoke of war without any experience, as if it just a theory. Now, they just exhaust him. 

“With that plan,” he crosses his arms in front of his chest, pulling an ugly face as the old man sneers at him, “you would sacrifice a large number.” 

“It is regrettable,” the old man says, but his tone is flippant, uncaring and he holds his golden goblet out to a passing servant boy, “but this is war.”

“Perhaps, you would find it more than regrettable if you were among their number.” Hajime snorts across the table. These war councils are the one place Takahiro has found they still tend to agree.

The man stands enraged, pulling his robe around himself haughtily, so the king’s crest is obviously displayed against his chest, “You dare speak to me in such a way, I am advisor to the King.” A bit of wine spews into his beard at the final hard k. The other old men around the table keen proudly at his display, shooting Takahiro triumphant sneers.

He refrains from voicing a cutting reply, all too aware of Issei’s wary expression from the head of the table. A servant boy reaches to fill his wooden cup and Takahiro gratefully excepts the refill. He idly listens as Hajime suggests an alternative plan, but his eyes remain fixed on the boy. His cloak is bunched uncomfortably at his waist, as if put on in haste, clumsily even. It is the way Takahiro’s own clothes would fall when he first arrived to the north as a boy, before Issei had shown him the proper way to smooth down each layer. A second servant boy moves around the table superfluously, smoothly circling to the head, his steps quickening as he approaches Issei. And Takahiro is already on his feet when he sees a flash of silver. 

He vaguely hears someone call, “Weapon.” As is it stabs into his lower abdomen. 

Right where Issei’s throat would have been. He remains conscious long enough to attempt disarming the boy, before his feet are swept from underneath him and his head slams into the ground. And then nothing, darkness

 

*

 

It could be night, but their are no stars, no moon, no breeze, and there is just the dark churn of water before him. It washes ashore, closer to his feet with every push. And he knows nothing of this bleakness, it leaves him hollowed, staring emptily at the approaching tide, at the figure emerging. He watches it approach, the way it glides through water, its feet always submerged. It fills his chest with something painfully bitter and lonely, but he prefers them over the emptiness. 

A boom echoes across water, shaking its surface. The figure does not turn from him and he does not turn from it, even as his chest fills with anger, and he is agonizingly full when he realizes he cannot move. There is another boom, louder than the last, and there is a distant achingly familiar voice calling to him and knows even with a chest too full of hate— it is someone he loves. 

And then there is light, it reveals the figure before him, what might have once been a man. Thin and tall it towers over him, skin deathly pale, with bloated purpled veins running like webs just beneath. Its eyes empty, each a cracked mirror of too many pupils.

He stands paralyzed before it. Unable to move as icy water sweeps across his feet, as it clutches his ankle, spiraling up his leg and chest, until it stops upon the beat of his heart.

The far away voice calls to him, more loud booms echo, the light shines blindingly, but he cannot move as he is dragged into water, as it icily fills his lungs. As he is pushed to the bottom of the sea and it is dark once more.

 

*

 

When he hazily comes to consciousness the first thing he notes is his pounding head. And the second is ravenous thirst. He opens his eyes slowly, and stares dimly in front of him until the spinning stops. He lays still a few more moments hoping the ache in his head will also ease, but when that seems unlikely he lifts his head, pushing through sharp stabs of pain, and slowly looks around. The room is dimly light, but his eyes snap to a jug of water just out of his reach. With a grunt he shifts towards it, his body aching with each motion. A weight moves across his legs and he jerks, letting out low pained groan. He has to close his eyes as a bout of nausea rolls through him, but he just gags, breaking into a cold sweat.

A hand presses against his forehead and he forces his eyes open, his hand already moving to his waist for his sword, but there is nothing there, not even his small dagger. He panics a moment, before his eyes focus and he lets his hand drop to the side.

“Issei.” The name touches his lips cracked and rough. Fuck, he is thirsty. He reaches for the jug again, his fingers barely grazing the side. He watches Issei pick it up, wonders if he is imagining it shake. He leans back when he drinks his fill and he thinks of making a joke, but remains silent at the look in Issei’s eye.

“You could have—.” He chokes around the last word, but it lies between them, loud and obvious— _died_. He is certain Issei is shaking now, “What were you thinking?”

His head pounds water clogged and full, “You are Issei.” He answers between each ache and regrets it immediately. It is too honest. He weakly tries thinking of something sharp to follow up with, but stops as the dull ache grinds harder against his skull.

“Do not—.” Issei chokes again, the noise sounding startlingly like a sob. He has never seen Issei like this before, so caught between anger and desperation and fear. “Don’t do that again.” And he tries to sound commanding, but a quivering, “please,” is tacked at the end and Takahiro aches in a different way.

“Come.” He reaches his hand up as far as he can and tugs at his tunic. His grip is probably pitifully weak, but Issei collapses by his side and pushes his face against Takahiro’s neck. He brushes a hand through dark curls.

They remain quiet for a long time, and Takahiro is already falling asleep again when Issei lifts his head, “Promise.”

“What?” He half slurs out.

“That you will not do that again.”

He nods his head mostly delirious, but even then he knows it is probably a lie.

And somewhere on the blurred tip of unconsciousness, “I cannot lose you,” is whispered into the dip of his collar bone.

  

*

 

“Fuck.” 

“Stop moving, so I can finish.” Issei firmly grips his hip, pressing him to the bed.

Takahiro bucks up insolently, immediately regretting the action as his abdomen sears painfully. Between clenched teeth he grits out another, “Fuck.”

Issei looks up at him raising an annoyingly knowing eyebrow, before he leans back down inspecting his work, “Finished.” He rubs the excess herb onto his britches. “Bandage time.” he puts his arms around Takahiro’s shoulders tugging him into a sitting position, “You really are an awful patient.” 

“And you are not a doctor.” He puts his chin on Issei’s shoulder sullenly. “Remind me again why you insist on doing this.”

“Well I though I was being a good friend.” He pulls back to secure the bandage before lowering Takahiro back to the bed. Takahiro frowns, but resignedly lets Issei move him to a more comfortable position against the pillows.

He teasingly lifts an eyebrow, “Your friends stay in your bed when they are injured?”

“Stop being so difficult.” Issei rolls his eyes and moves up the bed until their shoulders press together, “Anyway you should enjoy my company I am about to be very busy.”

He idly watches Issei’s legs shake as he stretches them with a loud yawn, “We move camps within the fortnight, right?”

“Yes, the preliminary troops have already secured a base just north of the river lands.”

“Only a few more months before we reach Karasuno then.” He pinches the top of Issei’s leg, “You will soon be the most fearsome general ever know to the North.”

“I will let you tell Hajime that.”

He laughs, “I take it back. You’ll be the most fearsome general from one very small region of the north.” 

“Much better.”

“And to think we met when you still wet the bed.”

“It was one time.” Issei grumbles swatting his arm, but his lips still tug up with amusement.

“Just trying to keep you humble.”

“You always do.” He says and reaches down, lightly roving over the top of Takahiro’s hand, “And you will not remain behind to heal?” 

“No.” Takahiro scowls, but does not move his hand away, “And I’ll not be convinced otherwise.”

Issei sighs for an infuriatingly long time, “If you decide to—.”

“I won’t.” He cuts Issei off.

“Lord Matsukawa,” the tent flap flies open excitedly, but Kindaichi looks between them hesitantly and dips into a bow. “Apologies for interrupting.”

“There is no need.” Issei stands from the bed and when Kindaichi remains half bowed he kindly prompts, “Is there news?”

Kindaichi swings his head up, “We have found the second boy,— I mean assassin, among the livestock.”

“That explains why the dogs could not find him. Is he restrained?” Something unsettled rolls in Takahiro’s stomach at the tone.

“Yes my lord.”

“Bring me to him.”

 

*

 

Bed rest as it turns out is extremely dull and as his wound heals, he sneaks out of Issei’s tent with increasing frequency. Sometimes he trains, well watches Kindaichi train, while idly bantering with Kunimi. A few times he even helped Watari tend to the dying. 

But mostly he drinks. He wanders through the camp until he stumbles upon ale or mead, and sometimes quite excellent company. It really is quite the exciting adventure, even when most of the soldiers move about him now, as if he frail. Then usually Kindaichi finds him inebriated and drags him back to Issei’s tent. The poor boy, still saddled with Takahiro’s drink habit. 

So, of course it is with flagon in hand that he falls into a particularly unkempt tent. “What?” He dazedly asks the ragged ceiling. 

The ceiling, of course, does not respond, so he pushes himself into a sitting position, groaning at the pull of his wound. He vaguely recognizes the boy glaring at him, but it’s not until he takes in the chain secured around his feet and the unkept tuck of his shirt that he recognizes him as the other would be assassin. 

He should probably leave the tent, but Takahiro’s halfway to drunk and not usually one for grudges anyway and he is desperately tired of being treated like glass. The boy’s glare is actually very refreshing, so he settles in front of him, with a wave, “Greetings.”

Other than a scoff the boy remains silent. 

“No need to be shy.” Takahiro just chuckles, “Perhaps one of my more embarrassing escapades will loosen your tongue?” The boy just looks at him stonily.

“Well, it began as many of the best stories do, at the bottom of a bottle. And ended of course, in a whorehouse. Me stark naked, the very same bottle stuck around my thumb, and some very angry men don in corsets chasing me.” He holds a goofy smile, waiting a moment to gage the boy’s expression before sighing, “Perhaps this is not the best story for a child. 

The boy angrily jerks his tiny body up straighter, probably trying to appear bigger, “Not a child.” His tongue weighs thick and accented, the stilt of his words indicating nomadic lineage.

“So you are not southern? Are you of the Nekoma clan?” The boy (man?) looks furious, Takahiro wonders how many times he has let himself speak since capture, Issei had said they were having trouble. Takahiro holds up his quarter full bottle of mead, “No need to answer, I am just a drunken fool.”

Takahiro takes a quick gulp before placing the drink before the prisoner, “Here.”

“Why?” He narrows his eyes suspiciously.

“I do not know.” He answers, but his mind is clouded with the ache of thirst, “Perhaps just think of it as a drunken gift.” Then Takahiro begins the long process of pulling himself to his feet.

 

*

 

“You are still on bed rest.”

Surprised, Takahiro sleepily looks up from amber mead to Hajime before gesturing to Kindaichi striking his sword against a bale of hay, “Someone has to make sure this oaf continues his training.” 

Kunimi snorts, “Is that you? Perhaps you should look up from your drink then.” 

“A good teacher would not need to look up.” He quips, shifting so he’s sitting more comfortably against the post and glances at Hajime, “I have also been training Kunimi in a different art. I believe he has taken to it quite well.” 

“I have a sharp tongue, but it is not to your credit.”

Takahiro holds a hand to his chest, “I have never been so proud.”

“Will there be two of you?” Hajime just pulls a disguised face, “I may have to abandon this war just to escape.” 

He chokes on his laugh, so surprised by the joke, “Are we worse than treason?”

Hajime remains silent a moment and rubs his fingers beneath his chin before slowly answering, “No.” 

“That was an unusually hard decision.”

“We need to try harder, treason should be the obvious answer.”

Takahiro cackles loudly, holding his side when it aches dully with the movement. 

“You should rest.”

“I do not rest I am insatiable.” He fears that is true under the plague of nightmares— a cold white hand, freezing water, and then nothing. He pushes the thought away with a gulp of mead. 

Hajime narrows his eyes pulling the bottle of mead from his hand, “Go rest.” Takahiro chuckles lightly remembering the last time, near the beginning of the war, when Hajime had found him in drink and _coaxed_ him to rest.

It has been so long since they were that casual. He reaches a leg out to tap against Hajime’s ankle teasingly, “Do you worry for me?” He chuckles as Hajime lightly kicks his foot away.

“Disgusting.” Kunimi adds.

“Be quiet.” 

“No use denying it now.” He calls as Hajime stalks off, “I already know you care for me, sweet Hajime.”

Hajime yells, but he does not stomp back angrily, does not clench his tunic or shake him. He tries not to look too unhappy about the outcome, overly wary of Kunimi’s sharp gaze focused on him.

“You look disappointed.” 

Perhaps they have been spending to much time together. He sighs, “I do not like being treated as an invalid.”

“You are invalid.” Kunimi scoffs. Takahiro wishes he were not always so logical.

  

*

  

“You did not tell?”

Takahiro rouses, having almost nodded off, and glances at the prisoner, this is the first time the he has spoken since that initial meeting and Takahiro has come back more than a few times. “What?”

The prisoner just looks at him impatiently, “That I am of Nekoma.”

“No.” He takes a gulp of mead before handing it to the other, “That’s not my job.” 

The prisoner glares at the bottle, before looking back at him, “But you are part of Aobajōsai’s army?”

“I have yet to see any harm in this and I would loathe to lose such an excellent drinking spot.”

He sneers, as if Takahiro is a particularly foul piece of bread, “You have no honor.”

“Perhaps you should not try convincing me, you will be dead the moment they discover you have no information on Karasuno.”

“You are different?” The prisoner sneers narrowing his eyes. “You do not want me dead, even though you were the one injured?”

“Well, I am alive. It is you who lost a comrade.”

“And if we had killed your king of mountains?” 

Something dark and ugly swirls in his chest, “Then we would not be having this conversation.”

The prisoner examines him intently a moment, before he relaxes, “So you do care for something.” Takahiro feels like he just won a game he did not realize he was playing. The prisoner takes a long drink and sighs, “If you must continue coming, call me Yaku. Now tell me of these men in— what word did you say? Corset? Is that a type of armour?”

  

*

 

He wakes with a jerk. Just a dream, it was just a dream. He rolls over, his wound aching dully as he moves as close to Issei as he dares, feeling silly as he reaches a shaking hand to his chest. His fingers stutter over Issei’s beating heart and he lets out a relieved sigh he had not realized he was holding. It is just that dream— a white skeletal body, a cold hand on his chest, his own heart slowing and then nothing, except dark freezing water.

“Another nightmare?” Takahiro flinches, and makes to pull his hand away, but Issei holds it firmly in place.

Takahiro inhales sharply, but slowly forces himself to relax, “It appears I did not drink enough to keep them at bay.”

“You drink too much.”

He chuckles remembering the last time they had this conversation, “I thought you agreed that is impossible.”

Issei clutches his hand tighter, “I am beginning to doubt the logic.”

He sighs, “As am I, but I really do enjoy sleep.”

“Could I try something?” Takahiro nods wearily and not a moment later Issei interlocks their fingers, “This used to help me when we were children.”

“We are adults now, we should not. The men already begin to gossip.”

“Let them.” He explains it away to how tired he is that he does not pull away. A thumb runs along the top of his hand, “If you need to talk about it?” 

“He cannot even imagine describing that kind of horror, “No.” There is something too raw in the answer, in his voice, so he clears his throat, “No, it’s just a dream.” 

They remain silent for awhile and he thinks Issei has drifted back to sleep, until he speaks again, voice husky and so much softer, “The first night, after you were injured I had a strange dream.”

He hums curiously in response. 

“I dreamed that I died.”

“Are you certain it was not a nightmare?”

“No, it was—.” He pauses with a soft chuckle, “It was definitely a dream.”

“Must have been pleasant. What happened?”

Issei moves closer until Takahiro can just see the blurred outline of his face through the darkness, “Do you remember when I told you that each man sees the king before death?”

“Must we have this conversation now I—.”

Issei interrupts him with a finger pressed to his lips, “Will you listen for a moment?”

Takahiro nods, pulling back until the finger eases from his mouth, and he is glad for the darkness, because he is certain that a flush covers his cheeks.

“Well this dream made me realize something. I lay on the battlefield, and felt nothing of king or kingdom in what was before me.” 

“Have you become more devout? Had a religious awakening? The priests will be pleased.”

“No.” Issei chuckles, “Have I told you before that you interrupt too frequently?”

“Not recently. I will make note of it, do you have a quill?” He thinks lack of sleep has made him much to eager to quip. 

“Certainly, let me just pull one from my undergarments.”

“Surely you would not use that as a quill, the ink would be far to light for parchment and the smell,” he blinks owlishly, as Issei bemusedly lifts an eyebrow, “well, would surely be inappropriate in its distinctiveness.”

“Not what I meant, but an intriguing idea. Perhaps with it we should just sleep.”

“But first, if not religious, what did you see in your dream?” 

“Now that,” Issei presses is finger against Takahiro’s nose, “is for when you are older.”

“I am older than you.”

“Perhaps in age, but certainly not maturity.”

“I will have you know I am very immature,” then adds petulantly, “ _and_ I still want to know your dream.”

“Maybe someday.”

He is about to tease Issei more, but then he notices the racing heart beneath his palm. It stutters warm and light, reminding him of the quick language of young children. Fast and sweet, they twitter only half understood words, dashing away quiet with each sound. They swell with youthful innocence, but soon they will learn some silences are inevitable, that joyful chirps do little against darkness. And sometimes it will be hard to go on, to live in such harshness. But some, if they are lucky, they will remember— in the sweet tune of a songbird, or the beat of a lover’s heart— that there was once light.

His chest swells, all that he has felt for this man beside him is an ocean within his chest. He thinks he knows what Issei might say that someday, but for today, he just lays back and agrees, “Someday.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I made Hanamaki an alcoholic, my bad.
> 
> Also sorry I went overboard on all the myth creating, the whole thing with Yama becoming a mountain was inspired by Arthur’s Seat in Scotland, but other than that I made them up. 
> 
> Anyway, no comments which is totally fine, I’m not crying at all :,( (lmk if this is awful guys lol) also if you have anything you would like added in the next chapter :) Hopefully I can finish it soon, but I’m also doing a little Kunimi/Kindiachi side piece to go along with it so it might be awhile


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